Wormhole (The Rho Agenda #3)(81)

“Stay seated.” President Jackson slid into his own chair. “Who’s got the rundown?”

“I guess I have the honor,” James Nobles said. “As I said on the phone, we’ve had reports of multiple explosions at Fort Meade as well as gunfire near the NSA headquarters building. I have the NSA director on the line, but before you put him on, Mr. President, I think you should see this.”

The national security advisor leaned forward and touched a button on the remote control panel, turning one of the flat-panel displays to CNN.

“...As we continue to follow the situation underway at Fort Meade, Maryland, we continue to receive reports of explosions and gunfire coming from the base. As we’ve been reporting for the last several minutes, this station received a call from a person claiming to be a member of the Al Qaeda cell conducting the attack. If you’ve just tuned in, I want you to listen to this recording of the call...”

Several moments of dead air, which lasted just long enough to increase President Jackson’s sense of foreboding, were suddenly broken by a man’s heavily accented voice.

“Be silent, infidel. My name is Fariq Abdullah Muhammad. At this very moment, Allah has launched an attack on your National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland, where our brothers are being held in a secret US prison. If you listen closely you may hear the explosions as I speak.”

The man paused as the sound of three distant explosions sounded in the background.

“It has begun. Allahu Akbar.”

James Nobles clicked a button and the video froze.

“They’ve been recycling this recording every couple of minutes.”

President Jackson nodded, then pressed a button on the speakerphone. “General Wilson, this is President Jackson. Can you hear me OK?”

There was a two-second pause, followed by an encryption hiss as Balls Wilson’s voice came over the speaker.

“Loud and clear, Mr. President. Sorry for the comm link delay, but we’re having to talk over a secure satcom link.”

The president tried and failed to keep the irritation out of his voice. “And why is that?”

“Someone’s taken out our external phone lines. Killed base military police radio comms as well. We’ve also got some sort of problem inside the Ice House.”

“So who’s behind it?”

“The consensus view says Al Qaeda. I’m not buying it.”

“Have you seen the news?”

“I’ve seen it.”

“Seems cut-and-dried to me.”

“Too cut-and-dried, Mr. President. Levi doesn’t think it’s Al Qaeda either. No chatter match.”

Cory Mayfield cut in. “Bullshit, Mr. President. Sometimes things are exactly what they seem.”

“And sometimes they aren’t.” General Wilson’s voice acquired a cutting edge.

“So what’s your situation right now?” President Jackson interrupted. Christ. Did every president have to endure such constant bickering among his advisors?

“Mass confusion. I just got back to the NSA and the building is secure. Our perimeter defense force is in place and ready to repel an attack. But the military police are having problems. I haven’t been able to raise the MP station and apparently they can’t communicate with any of their patrols. We’ve had multiple explosions around the base, so you can imagine what the night shift patrols are doing, trying to get to the places where the bombs went off. We’ve also lost communications with the Ice House facility.”

“Response teams?”

“They’ve got their own, just like we do here at NSA headquarters. They should be able to deal with any internal threat.”

“Everything you’ve said points to an Al Qaeda operation,” Cory Mayfield interrupted.

“Like I said, I’m not buying it.”

President Jackson held up his hand, cutting off Director Mayfield’s response. “General Wilson, I respect your opinion, but I have to act based on what I consider the most likely scenario. Since we haven’t been able to contact Colonel Abrams, the base commander, I’ve given the go for a Delta response.”

“Mr. President, local civilian police can get here faster.”

“I’m not putting civilian police up against a trained Al Qaeda assault force. I’ve made my decision.”

“Yes sir.”

President Jackson broke the connection and turned to his chief of staff. “Carol, get my press secretary in here. I’m going to have to make a statement in the next hour or so.”

“I called her fifteen minutes ago. Gretchen’s on her way, along with the rest of your national security staff.”

“That’s good.” The president didn’t intend to say what he was thinking, as if by refusing to give his thoughts voice he might avert what they foretold. But somehow, the words found their way out of his mouth. “Looks like another all-nighter.”





The door opened as Mark reached for the handle, Heather’s smile breaking the ice that had enclosed his soul. Her gaze lingered for a moment on his full beard; then, as Heather’s gaze settled on Jennifer’s limp body in his arms, the smile faded.

“Set her on the couch,” Heather said, motioning toward what appeared to be a small break area beside a sink and coffeepot.